


hit it hard enough and even skin will tear

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just about the first thing Patrick noticed about Pete, and this isn't a secret, is that Pete is a phenomenal asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hit it hard enough and even skin will tear

Just about the first thing Patrick noticed about Pete, and this isn't a secret, is that Pete is a phenomenal asshole. He's a sweet, cuddly, basically loveable asshole, but he *pushes* all the time. He pushes emotional buttons and he pushes people into walls and he pushes unstable objects over. He pushes Patrick a *lot*.

 

And the thing is, Pete's older than him. He's bigger. And he's mean. So Patrick reacts to Pete the way he's reacted to bullies since he was little: he hits him, fast and hard.

 

Punches him full-force, puts him on the floor, holds him down. Smacks him.

 

That trip when they'd been in the van for god knows how many hours, and Pete wouldn't stop poking at him. And Patrick tried to walk away from him, the way they always told him to, except Pete came after him, and Patrick just wrapped his fingers around Pete's neck. And squeezed.

 

He expected Pete to push him off, or at least fight him. He didn't. He went absolutely still. Big eyes staring at Patrick while Patrick made what was, at the time, a fairly serious attempt to kill him.

 

When Patrick finally let go, Pete just dropped. Down on his knees in the filthy gravel of this tiny gas station in the middle of fucking nowhere, absolutely quiet and staring up at Patrick. And then he brought one hand up and touched his neck. Not even like it hurt.

 

He remembers realizing Pete was hard.

 

Remembers reaching out with his foot and pressing it against Pete's crotch. Pressing in and down. Held there, half his weight against Pete's hard-on, until Pete whimpered. Folded in on himself.

 

Patrick thought about kicking him in the face. He was still so fucking *angry*. Walked away instead, the way he'd meant to originally. And behind him, Pete said, "thank you."

 

Five more hours driving that night, and Patrick spent most of it with Pete's head in his lap, thinking about it.

 

It's not something it was ever fair for Pete to ask of him. He was still putting sex together in his head, and Pete came slamming through and rearranged everything. So that Patrick noticed he got hard too, the next time he hit Pete in the face.

 

Maybe it was always there. It's not like Pete's the first person Patrick ever hit. Just the first person who looked back at him and *took* it. Who wanted it, who made himself deserve it. Pete was the guy who could make himself into such a miserable fuck that Patrick had to throw him against the wall and tell him exactly how tempted he was to beat the shit out of him.

 

Not always. There were -- are -- weeks and months when Pete doesn't go looking for it. When he's basically sweet and bouncy and annoying and clingy and he crawls into Patrick's lap and kisses him and everything's fine, peachy, sweet and vanilla like only a pile of boys can be.

 

So it's maybe obvious, later, when he's old enough or just Pete-experience enough, that Pete's depression fuels it. That it comes out of their exhaustion and frustration.

 

That first time, after Patrick held Pete down on their shitty motel bed and *bit* him, hard, all down his back and ass and thighs, Patrick understood there isn't anyone else that Pete could or would ask for this.

 

There's maybe no one else Patrick would do it to. He can't imagine ever hurting a woman this thoroughly. There's something particular to the two of them about sinking his teeth into the stringy muscle of Pete's back and just grinding his jaw down until Pete howls in pain. Both arms wrapped up in Patrick's belt, hands over his head, and they're not tied to anything, but Patrick whispered, "Fucking keep them there," and Pete did.

 

Patrick wasn't even naked. Just Pete, who must love it, for the amount of time he spends with his clothes off. Patrick still had his fucking *shoes* on. Kneeling across Pete's hips, swearing at him, digging his incisors in until Pete groaned. Not "no", just "oh god that hurts".

 

There were old bruises along Pete's sides, leftovers from stage diving and wild leaps off random high places. Hand-sized, perfectly set up for Patrick to dig his fingers into them.

 

That hurt. It was the point where Pete started thrashing under him, started swearing back and begging him to stop. Except, he never moved his hands. Kept them over his head, only bucked his hips, only let go when Patrick leaned up and pulled the buckle open. Let him loose.

 

Got up and walked away.

 

He wasn't going to leave him. Just step back. Go sit down and think about this.

 

He didn't expect Pete to come off the bed on his knees and crawl over to him. Sit back on his heels and looked up at Patrick, all smeared eyeliner and tears and adoration.

 

It was the first time Pete went down on him. Patrick remembers Pete watching him, eyes fixed on his face, while he opened Patrick's jeans. Staring up while he sucked him. Sweetest blowjob he'd ever had.

 

It always ends up with them curled around each other in bed. Pete sleeps like a rock, after, and Patrick vibrates. Thinks about music and marks out chords along the mouth-bruises on Pete's spine.

 

They set boundaries. Patrick's more or less sure if he had to live with Pete, he'd kill him. Pete would push the frustration too far and Patrick would follow through on that first aborted throttling.

 

And, Pete has to ask for it. Not just by being the incredible asshole he's capable of being. He has to come and fucking *ask* for it.

 

And, Patrick won't do anything to Pete's hands, and he doesn't spank Pete bare-handed anymore. The last time he did, as hard as he wanted for as long as Pete could take it, the next day Patrick's fingers were too bruised even to hold a coffee cup.

 

Pete asks for it.

 

Hotel room in Atlanta. Patrick should have expected it, from the pissy-ness Pete's been exuding all week, or from the fact that Pete turned off the a/c almost an hour ago. Warn enough in the room for them to get naked without freezing. Warm like it needs to be for Pete to spend hours naked and on his knees without his whole body locking up tomorrow.

 

Patrick looks over at Pete watching him. He's not finished working, but Pete's right fucking there. He sighs.

 

"Fine. Strip. Go kneel in front of the TV."

 

Leaves him there. He doesn't need to watch Pete. He'll be there, naked and folded down on himself, when Patrick's got everything saved, and the computer's safely shut down.

 

He doesn't turn around. If Pete didn't want to be where Patrick put him, he wouldn't be here at all. Patrick digs in his bag instead. Tosses the lube he digs out over his shoulder, hears it hit the rug and slide.

 

He says, "Finger yourself."

 

Pete's breath shudders.

 

Patrick's not going to look. He pictures a keyboard on the edge of the coffee table and plays "Golden" on it silently.

 

When he's finished one run-through, he says, "Use another finger."

 

Pete whines.

 

He's not going to look. It's intense enough now that every time he hears Pete's breath hitch, his cock gets harder.

 

"One more."

 

Behind him, Pete says, "oh jesus patrick please."

 

"What?"

 

"please."

 

And the thing is, Pete's fucking gorgeous. The sight of him's been doing things to Patrick since he was a teenager. He's done scenes like this with Pete for years, and his gut still ties itself in knots when he turns around and looks at Pete, bent double and fingering himself open. Pete's watching Patrick like he's the most important thing in the universe, like Patrick's more important even than the stretch in his own ass.

 

Jesus.

 

Patrick says, "Wipe your hands off and come over here."

 

Gets up himself and settles onto the bed, leaning against the headboard. Clothes on, legs stretched out, hat angled up enough that he doesn't have to peer at Pete when he gets there.

 

Pete settles beside the bed. Kneels and looks up at Patrick. He arches when Patrick locks a fist into his hair.

 

"Come up here and kiss me."

 

It's a scramble. He gets an armful of naked, desperately affectionate Pete Wentz pressing against his mouth. Lips and shallow tongue and eyes wide open. Voice against Patrick's mouth whispers, "fuck me fuck me fuck me."

 

Both hands in Pete's hair, pulling tight. Holds Pete to his mouth and says back, "Okay."

 

It's permission. Pete can't pull back, but he can work hands between them and open Patrick's jeans. Pull him out and stroke his cock. The angle's awkward enough that Patrick can feel strips of Pete's whole naked body against his exposed skin. Pete's side against his cock. Shoulder against his forearm.

 

He pushes Pete back, finally. Holds him at half-arm's length with both fists still in Pete's hair and grins at him.

 

Pete grins back.

 

Climbs into Patrick's lap, careful of the zip on his open jeans, and takes Patrick's cock in his hand. Settles over it and pushes himself down.

 

He's touched, always, by how much Pete loves this. The grin and hiss while he's sliding down the first time. He stays hard. Works himself naked into Patrick's almost fully-clothed lap, only leaning in for a kiss when he's all the way down. Careful, shallow. Asking.

 

Patrick snaps his hips up, enough he can feel Pete's abs tremble. Drops back down and feels Pete follow him, staying close as possible.

 

Pete holds there, rocking but never pulling off, dropping kisses all over Patrick's face. It probably feels amazing to him, but it's not enough for Patrick to come. So he snakes a hand between them, closes forefinger and thumb around Pete's nipple, and twists. Hard as he can.

 

Pete screams.

 

Jerks around, not quite trying to get away but proving how much it hurts, and Patrick leans in, replacing his fingers with his teeth.

 

That does it. Pete rises up on his knees, fighting the pain, and slides back down. Does it again, and Patrick lets go. Strokes the tooth-marked flesh with his tongue.

 

Nights they've done this, he's wrapped his fingers around Pete's throat, too low to kill him but tight enough for Pete's eyes to snap wide and glassy from the pressure. He's not that pissed with Pete tonight. Not actually annoyed about anything in particular. Pete's been cranky for days, but he'll work it out in Patrick's lap, fucking himself raw and slow until he comes, and then keeping up the rhythm until Patrick comes too.

 

It's that space between Pete's orgasm and his own that Patrick loves. Pete's shaky and desperate and completely focused on Patrick's pleasure. He picks up one hand or the other and kisses Patrick's palms.

 

When Patrick comes, and they're both sticky and gasping, he lets Pete pull his shirt off over his head. Use it to wipe away the worst of the mess and throw it away.

 

Patrick strips the rest of his clothes off himself. Offers Pete his naked body to curl up against. Pete clings. Thigh over Patrick's legs and his head on Patrick's chest. He'll stay here as long as Patrick's willing to hold onto him. All night, if he can have it.

 


End file.
